Kate

Chapter 1

I enter every week with bated breath – waiting, wishing, praying – until I hear the gossip fall from the mouths of my mother and her friends: finding out which men the wealthy ladies have chosen to flaunt their jewellery to, spotting where each gentleman focuses their attention. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't enjoy the stories or the chaos that can follow.

But, as the roulette wheel spins, I'm always an option. And so, there's always an ounce of panic weighing on my chest as I spend my days with these high-society women. It'll be noticed if I sit in one corner of the room for too long, the older women pointing it out and tittering between themselves as everyone my age smirks at the prospect of my favour falling. As a rule, I make small talk once every fifteen minutes to keep the hawks from gossiping.

All the while, I keep tabs on as many people as I can – an ability I've now mastered. It's amusing to see the younger girls suck up to the hawks, riveting to watch the men broker business deals. Even when they're at a party, the family name is on the line.

Ulrica Gordon, dressed in a purple gown, appears through the black doors of the golden ballroom and sidles up to Leonora Macclebee, her arms thrown out in front of her, gesturing towards Leonora's poofy orange dress and expressing how much she adores it. Personally, I think she looked better in the neon-green jumpsuit from last September's garden party, but each to their own.

Leonora smiles, running her hands over the material. She loves it. She loves the attention, as does everyone else in this vaulted room, rimmed with arched windows of gold, a magnificent diamond chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Even me.

'What are you smiling about?' Oliver asks.

I jump. Turning to the tall, blue-tuxedo clad blonde, I lower my hands to the edge of the bench and relax.

'You scared me,' I tell him.

Oliver laughs – a low, deep chuckle – before settling onto the seat beside me. 'I asked you a question.'

I nod, my mouth lifting at the edges. 'Your mum's attempts to flatter Leonora are amusing.'

Oliver cocks one of his small eyebrows before glancing behind me. 'It's working.'

I laugh. 'Of course. A compliment a day keeps Leonora at bay.' I've been singing the same ditty since I was eight years old.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. 'Shouldn't you be socialising?'

'I just finished listening to Mr Brown rave about his grandchild. I need a small break.'

'Well, if your mum glares at you any harder, you'll combust,' he answers, lifting his tumbler to his lips and taking a long sip of the clear liquid within.

I purse my lips in frustration. The urge to find Isabelle Dalton's beady brown eyes is an itch that needs to be scratched, but I fight against it. That would be giving her what she wants – an excuse to lecture me.

Instead, I shrug, angling myself closer to Oliver before replying, 'Once she realises I'm talking to you, she'll be placated. The heir to Gordon Enterprises?' I place my hand on top of my navy satin dress in mock disbelief. 'It's a dream come true!'

Oliver laughs again. 'Fair point. I am quite the catch.'

'And don't you know it,' I retort, reaching out and squeezing his hand before rising from the uncomfortable seat. My dress straightens with me, completely creaseless, as Oliver follows without hesitation, just inches away.

'Let's make them stare, Gordon,' I tease, rocking onto my tiptoes and tilting my face towards his. Oliver doesn't flinch, a smidge of a smile on his face as the air around us shifts, morphing into dull whispers and pointed looks.

'I think you have their attention,' Oliver murmurs under his breath, fanning me with the vodka that taints his breath.

I smile, our lips dangerously close, nearly brushing together. My words are nearly a whisper as I reply, 'I think you mean we.'

I hover for an extra five seconds, then pull away before the action can look stilted. Incalculable, inquisitive faces stare at us – a sea of tight, braided updos and slicked back hair. I tug Oliver behind me, straight past the hawks, to a white marble bar beyond.

The busy room returns to its usual gossipy state, low hums surrounding us as the others descend into conversation once more. Oliver and I no doubt the topic of ninety per cent of it – something I have no issue with.

I know how every inch of this room behaves, the correct way to work the crowd. Oliver and I show them not only what they want to see but what we deem fit to show them, manipulating the system we were born into to our advantage. The hawks and their husbands draw conclusions based on the picture we paint.

'What do you want to drink?' I ask Oliver, unbuttoning my royal-blue clutch and pulling out my card.

Oliver lowers his lips to my ear, placing a hand on the shiny surface beside me and smirking. 'The bartender looks pretty good,' he murmurs.

I laugh, unable to stop myself. Peering at the kneeling male bartender as he restocks the fridge, I nod in approval. He's relatively short compared to the man beside me, a curly black afro giving him extra height.

He stands suddenly, turning and shooting us a million-dollar smile.

'That's great.' My voice is quiet as I look at Oliver, amused. 'But here, you're my boyfriend, not his.'